Harry Potter's Christmas Carol
by Minstrel Knight
Summary: The classic Dickens tale in a setting with characters from Harry Potter.
1. Opening

**Harry Potter****'****s Christmas Carol**

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of a past idea in the present and hope that future generations, not yet acquainted with it, will come to love the tale, in its original as well as thousands of adapted forms. A special tribute to Charles Dickens and JK Rowling, both of whom have made so many special Christmas Days for me in my childhood.

Please carry forward and wish you a Merry Christmas. May God bless you and Merlin save you.

M.K.

December, 2008.


	2. Stave 1

_**Stave 1 - Ronald's Ghost**_

Ronald was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Potter signed it: and Potter's name was worth the man's weight in gold. Poor Ronald was as dead as a door-nail.

And Potter knew that Ronald was dead. How could he not! Potter and Ronald Weasley's friendship was legendary - they had always been together since that fateful day when two eleven year old boys stepped into the massive Hogwarts Express and rode towards their destiny. Even as Potter struggled in his battles against the Dark Lord, Ronald had always been there beside him. Right next to Hermione Granger. And so, it was fitting that when Hermione Granger's mind was shattered into insanity, both Potter and Ronald stayed together in their grief - researching on quaint and archaic forms of magic. Until, of course, the day when Ronald finally wasted away in his sorrows and died.

There is no doubt that Ronald was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. Ronald was as dead as Potter's parents, his godfather, and the closest thing to an uncle he had. He was never coming back, and yet, Potter never removed Ronald's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. The firm was known as Potter and Weasley. Sometimes people would look at Potter and wonder which one he was, and then they would see the lightning bolt on his forehead and know.

The firm, you see, was established when Ronald's brothers saw the brilliant discoveries the two of them were making in the name of discovering a cure for Hermione. They got together and managed to convince the two lads, for at that time they were still young and impressionable, to patent and sell their discoveries even if it wasn't quite what they were searching for.

And in the process, Potter and Weasley became renowned researchers in forgotten and new magic lore. And extremely wealthy ones at that.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Potter! Bitter and sarcastic, his life, full of a troubled childhood, life-death escapades, lack of a stable family environment, and finally losing the closest thing to a sister he had, had made him hard and sharp as a flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze with age, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red; his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him, as he researched and discovered new magical spells and uses of artifacts; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

At one point in his life, people cared about Potter and were much concerned with his state. After all, he was their savior. But how the times change, and warm wind gives up its task, unable to shake the aged oak, strengthened by the cold storms of winter. Nowadays, nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, "Hello there, Harry! How are you, my good man?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him to throw their quaffle back into the playground, no gentle wizard or witch ever asked old Potter for any act of kindness without the usual fee being charged, at no discount even on Christmas.

But what did Potter care? It was the very thing he liked, to be left alone. When had life ever been kind to him? They had taken away all that he had ever cared for. For many a year, the thought of discovering a cure to heal Hermione and resurrect the Trio had sustained him and Ronald. But then, Hermione had passed away. And Ronald followed her to the grave. Potter had been left behind, a shell of what one used to be a boy deeply concerned with the fate of his fellow man, hardened and embittered with age.

This story begins here.

Once upon a time - on the blessed day of Christmas Eve - old Potter sat busy in the warehouse where he did his research. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy: and he could hear people outside go wheezing up and down, rubbing their hands to warm them. The solitary clock in the dark warehouse showed it to be only three, but it was quite dark already - the day had barely seen any light: and torches were lit inside. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole and was so dense that Potter had to squint to read the arithmancy chart in front of him.

The door of Potter's research center was open that he might keep an eye on his clerk, who sat in a dismal cell, taking care of all the business elements of 'Potter and Weasley' while Mr. Potter kept himself busy in his research and Mr. Weasley - well, let us not speak of Mr. Weasley and disturb the slumber of the departed.

"A merry Christmas, uncle Harry! God bless you! And Merlin save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Potter's godson, whose voice preceded his entry.

"Bah!" said Potter. "Humbug!"

He had so hated the sudden opening of the door that brought in a gust of wind and sent all his papers flying around as he hastily tried to hold them down. He glared at his godson, whose face had a bright glow, the fire of youth was in him and his eyes sparkled.

"Christmas, a humbug, uncle!" said Potter's godson. "Surely, you don't mean that."

"I do," said Potter. "Merry Christmas? What right have you to be merry? You're poor."

"Come, then," said the godson happily. "What right have you to be so forlorn? You're rich."

"Humbug. Bah." Potter lowered his glasses and peered at the parchment before him. "What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying extra bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour closer to finding that what you search; a time for life putting a mirror before you and asking, 'What now, Potter? Have you saved Hermione yet? Have you? Oh, I'm sorry. You are seven Christmases too late!' If I could work my will," said Potter indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled in Snape's cauldron with an ample amount of Mandrake roots to give him company."

"Uncle!"

"Godson!" replied Potter. "Celebrate Christmas in your own way, and let me celebrate in mine."

"Celebrate?" retorted Potter's godson. "But you don't celebrate it at all."

"Let me leave it alone then," said Potter. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done me!"

His nephew lowered his eyes. "There are many things from which I might have derived good and yet not come closer to achieve my ambitions, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas - when this day has come - apart from the holiness that its sacred name and cause deserves - as a good time, a family time, a humane time - a time when all of humanity comes together as one to celebrate itself by being kind, forgiving, charitable and pleasant: the only time I know of, when men and women consent as one to open their hearts freely and see those in lower stations as one of them. And therefore, uncle, thought it has never helped me closer towards being a Quidditch star or my Potions mastery, I believe Christmas has done me good, it will do me good - and it is a kind of good that you sorely need."

The clerk outside inadvertently applauded. "Hear hear!" and shriveled at the glare of his employer.

"Dine with us tomorrow, uncle. Please say yes."

"Good afternoon," said Potter dismissively.

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. But should you have a change of heart, please come to the Burrow."

"Good afternoon," said Potter.

"I ask nothing of you, uncle!" said his nephew. "Not a penny! Why can't you come?"

"Good afternoon," said Potter, a bit louder.

"Why can't we be friends, uncle."

"Good afternoon, nephew," said Potter.

"Why can't you let go of the past?"

"GOOD AFTERNOON!" shouted Potter, banging his paper weight down on the table.

"Very well then," said his nephew sadly. "I will leave now. But please reconsider." So saying, the nephew left quickly, raising his hat before the clerk and disappeared from sight.

Potter frowned at his clerk, who inadvertently, while letting Potter's nephew out had let two others in. They were stout and cheerful looking wizards, wearing top hats and traditional black robes.

"Potter and Weasley, I believe," said one of the wizards, referring to a list in his hand. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley?"

"Mr. Weasley has been dead these seven years," Potter replied icily. "He died seven years ago, this very night."

"We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman.

Potter frowned and waited for them to continue.

"At this festive time of the year, Mr. Potter," said he. "We like to make a donation to the war orphans from the last war. Knowing full well of the role you played, we are quite certain you would want to show some generosity."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Potter.

"Plenty," said the gentleman.

"And the orphanages?" asked Potter. "Are they still in operation?"

"They are."

"The Common Workhouse?" asked Potter.

"Still is, I am afraid. I wish they were not."

"In that case, there is nothing I have for you. Let the war orphans go to one of these places."

"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed one of the gentleman in disbelief. "Surely you don't mean that?"

"Oh I do."

"Many would rather die."

"Then they better do it and decrease the surplus population," and he went back to his research.

The gentlemen, seeing they had little chance of success, withdrew and left the workhouse and into the cold afternoon. The fog had thickened and yet, outside, there was a distinct warming of spirits as a group of choir children started their singing, moving from door to door in the busy Diagon Alley, regaling the travelers and shop keepers with their caroling. Potter frowned. He could ignore it at first as it was a faint echo in the distance but it soon kept growing in volume until finally, he could hear the words very clearly:

_"God rest ye, Merry Gentlemen  
Let nothing you dismay…"_

Potter leaned back and closed his eyes. He found himself in the dark yet vibrant setting of Grimmauld Place, full of people. It was Christmas time and a hearty meal had been prepared. A shaggy haired man was singing:

_"God rest ye, Merry Hippogriffs  
Let nothing you dismay…"_

His memory suddenly changed, and the shaggy haired man's merry eyes became confused as he fell into a mysterious veil and -

Potter forced his eyes open and clenched his fingers. "Bah," he said, getting up from his desk. He walked out of the building and chased away the carolers, ignoring the evil stares he was getting from his neighbors, on a day where there should have been no trace of evil or foul humor anywhere at all.

He walked back in and saw his clerk's gaze on the clock and frowned.

"I suppose you will want all day off tomorrow," said Potter.

"If it is convenient, sir," the clerk muttered.

"It is not," snapped Potter. "A poor excuse for a man to stop working, this Christmas. But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here early the next morning."

The clerk promised that he would and Potter walked out with a frown. The office was closed in a flash and the clock ran off towards the floo to get home to his family, while Potter strolled down the path to The Leaky Cauldron had his usual melancholy dinner while reading the Daily Prophet, and occupied himself for the rest of the evening with 'Lydia Borgman's Third Law of Magical Interference', and went home to bed. He lived in an apartment he used to share with the deceased Ronald Weasley. They were a gloomy suite of rooms in a run down part of town, purchased months after Hermione's death that seemed to fit into their mood then - and it still fit into Potter's mood, after nearly twenty years.

The flat, despite being in a magical part of London, was completely an ordinary flat, and especially the knocker on the door. The knocker was quite ordinary and Potter knew that very well, having become something of an unofficial Charms Master with all his research. For years, Potter had seen the knocker, on his way out and his way in, and it was always the same - round, large and golden.

So, it came as a shock to Potter when he stepped up to his door and instead of the round knocker, he saw Ronald's face.

Ronald's face. It was not in an unclear shadow that a trick of light could be taken as an explanation for this strange occurrence, nor was it a dismal anomaly in Potter's head, for he blinked and he blinked again. It was most definitely Ronald's face - not as the cheerful eleven year old, or the battle hardened seventeen year old. It wasn't even the grieving twenty year old or broken thirty year old Ronald that stared back at Potter.

Ronald's face was shriveled and full of agony - not a dark silent grief, the kind you get after mourning for years for a loved one's demise and allowing the mourning to affect your life - but a white and green agony that can only come after being tortured under the cruciatus for hours.

As Potter looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not shocked, or his heart, if he still had one, turned, would be a terrible lie. But the trained occlumens that he was, Potter cleared his mind and opened his door and stepped inside. He did pause for a moment upon entering, but he shut the door, and then the windows and then said, "Bah!"

Several hours and half a bottle of firewhisky later, Potter could be found sitting in front of a low fire in his living room, frowning as he scribbled on a paper. "The third law of magical interference indeed," he muttered. "The third law of utter garbage is what I call it." He threw the book aside and started scribbling on a piece of parchment - when suddenly, the face of Ronald Weasley appeared on the parchment.

"Humbug!" said Potter, throwing the parchment to the fire, and gasped. The flames on the low fire flared up - dancing in the mild wind - as if hundreds of golden Ronald Weasleys were marching in a row. It was then that the booming sound first came, followed by bells - not church bells, peaceful, serene and divine - but one that sounded as if it hadn't been used - and for good reason - as an aura of impending doom came over Potter.

The bells might have lasted for a minute or less, but it seemed like an hour to Potter. But they did cease and were succeeded by the clanking of chains, deep down below, as if someone were rising from the pits of hell, being dragged forward in chains.

"Humbug!" said Potter. "I'm hearing things."

His colour changed, however, when the noise shot up and came through the heavy door and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though shouting the arrival of the newcomer.

The same face. Ronald Weasley in his faded and shredded robes and worn boots, his red hair a pale white glow, but considerably a lighter shade of white than his once dark robes. The body was transparent. Dragged by chains that were bound to Weasley's arms and legs, he crept ever closer to the armchair where Potter was sitting.

Not even when he saw the phantom before him did Potter believe it. "What do you want with me?" he asked, his voice caustic and cold.

"Much," said the phantom in Ronald's voice. There was no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you then?" asked Potter in a louder voice. "You're a strange ghost, invading my privacy like this."

"In life I was your partner and best friend, Ronald Weasley."

Potter sighed. "Will you sit down?" he asked, and thinking, amended it to, "Can you sit down?"

"I can." The ghost sat down on a chair and looked closely at the living man next to him. "You don't believe me?"

"The Ron I knew would never choose to come back as a ghost," said Potter calmly. "You are clearly a trick - a prank - a highly distasteful one at that. But I have little desire to grant my tormentors the joy of seeing me react to this."

"You can see me for who I am - the ghost of Ronald Weasley. Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Potter, "I have known too many pranksters in my life to take this for anything else. Who is it then - George Weasley? No, I doubt he would prank me in this particular manner. Teddy?" He chuckled lightly.

Potter was not in the habit of laughing. Nor did he, in his heart, feel any mirth as he laughed. He was disturbed and uncomfortable for he could perceive the truth - even if he didn't particularly want to - that he was in the presence of the ghost of Ronald Weasley.

"Humbug!" said Potter, turning his head in a different direction. "Ron would never come back as a ghost."

"I didn't choose to," said the ghost and let out a frightful cry. The phantom shook its chain with such a dreadful noise that Potter held on tight to his chair, as if scared of being thrown away. But much greater was his horror when the phantom took off the bandage around its head and its lower jaw dropped down upon its chest.

Potter fell upon his knees and cried, "Mercy! Dreadful apparition of my deceased friend, why do you torment me?"

"O faithless one," said the Ghost. "Do you believe me now?"

"I do," said Potter. "I must. But what reason has made you come back, in such a guise, and here, of all places, O Spirit?"

"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk among his fellow men, and travel far and wide; and it that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world - oh, woe is me! - and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" Again the phantom raised a cry and shook its chain.

"You are chained," said Potter fearfully and sadly. "Tell me why? You were a good man, you saved the lives of many innocents, same as the rest of us, and devoted your life to bringing back the woman you loved? For what reason have the fates deemed your life to be unfulfilled? What has caused this condemnation. Speak, Ron, speak to me."

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my free will and of my free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"

Potter trembled.

"Do you not see the chain? Do you not recognize it?" pursued the Ghost. "This is the very chain you had wrought for yourself as well, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have labored on it, since, at double the pace. It is a ponderous chain that awaits you."

Potter glanced about him on the floor, as if expecting to see himself surrounded by a terrible amount of iron, but could see nothing.

"Ron, why?" asked Potter. "You were a good man."

"A good boy, aye," said the Ghost. "But I strayed from the path of goodness and kindness. I cast aside warmth towards my fellow beings, and shred to pieces generosity and benevolence, in my quest to find that which I ought to have realized was impossible. Above all, I forgot what it meant to be alive. As have you!"

"Oh, captive, bound and ironed!" cried the phantom. "Not to know, not to feel, ought but the weariness of age and the emptiness of a soul long lost; how I have labored in my travels - flying on the wings of the wind itself - laboriously for the past seven years - not a moment of sleep, not a moment of rest; to find that my mortal life, cut short, was truly cut short many years before my death at my own two hands. Not to know that regret is but a bitter pill that serves no effect and soothes nothing and changes nothing when the opportunities of life have passed one by. Yet such was I! Oh!"

"But you were a good man of magic," said Potter. "You nearly discovered the cure in time. If only… if only, she had survived the Christmas, we could have brought her back. You were a good man in the business you chose."

"Mankind was my business," cried the Ghost. "The good of all was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence, were all my business. Magic, research, trade, potions were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business." The Ghost stayed silent for a moment. "At this time of the year, I suffer most. Why did I walk through the crowds of humanity with my eyes closed, avoiding to see the suffering that surrounded me, pretending that I was the only one who knew the meaning of pain? Were there not others who had suffered much greater than I?"

Suddenly, the Ghost jumped from the seat. "Hear me!" he cried. "My time is nearly gone. I am here to warn you, Harry Potter, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope that is available due to the kindness and goodness of your heart years ago."

Potter's face shone a bit at that. "You were always a good friend to me, Ron."

"You will be haunted by Three Spirits," said the Ghost uncaringly. "They will come one at a time and the first will arrive at one in the morning. You must convince them that there is still some light left in your soul, Harry Potter. You must show yourself capable of pulling yourself out of the quicksand of coldness and apathy that you have yourself plunged into, and bring back the spirit of Christmas in your heart. Choose well."

After speaking these words, the phantom put back the bandage it had removed and slowly turned around. Slowly, it dragged its chains out of the room and back into the nothingness it came from, leaving behind Potter, shocked and trembling.

Potter followed the phantom to the window and looked out. The air was full of spirits, ghosts and phantoms, flying around on the wings of the wind - every one of them had chains like Ronald Weasley - some were even linked together; none were free.

When these spirits faded into mist, Potter closed the window and examined the door through which the spirit had entered his apartment. When he could see no opening, he frowned. "Bah," he said. "Hum -" but couldn't quite finish. Shivering, he shook his head and went straight to bed, not even bothering to pick up the parchment on which he had been working for the past few hours.


	3. Stave 2

**Stave 2 - The First of the Three Spirits**

When Potter woke up, it was so dark that he couldn't see a single thing. But he was so adamant to cut the darkness with his very eyes, he squinted and attempted to clear his visions. The chimes of a neighboring church struck the four quarters and he waited to listen the hour. It was forty five minutes past twelve, to his surprise.

The conversation with Ronald Weasley's ghost came painfully back into his mind and Potter shivered, pulling up his blanket higher. Unable to sleep, he ran through the conversation several times with only a single question in his mind: Was it a dream or not?

Potter lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more. With the cold dread of anticipation clutching his heart, Potter lay still, desperate to wait out the moment, and prove his fears wrong; that it was merely a dream after a taxing day at work and lots of silly Christmas cheer.

"Ding, dong!" the church bell rang.

"The hour itself," said Potter triumphantly, "and nothing else!" He spoke before the hour bell had ended, which it did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flared up in his room and he woke up in an instant. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside by, of all things, a hand. Potter, sitting up on his bed, came face to face with the unearthly visitor he was warned about, and it was a strange figure.

It was a strange figure - like a child, yet more an ancient and old man shriveled into the size of a child. Its hair was long and white and hung down its back, its face was familiar.

"Professor Dumbledore!" cried out Potter for the spirit's face reminded him of his former Headmaster but the Spirit shook its head.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," said the Spirit in a soft and gentle voice, but surprisingly low, unlike Dumbledore's grandfatherly voice.

"Long past?" asked Potter.

"No," said the Spirit. "Your past. My business here today is your reclamation. Take heed." It put out its strong hand and clasped Potter by the arm.

"Rise. And walk with me."

It would have been in vain for Potter to ask for a few moments to grab his cloak and hat and comment on the fact that he was clad in naught but slippers, dressing gown and nightcap, as the Spirit's touch made him rise.

"I am mortal," said Potter as he moved through the window behind the Spirit.

"Bear but a touch of my hand and you shall be upheld in more than you can see."

As the words were spoken, they passed through the closed window and stood upon an open road with houses on either side. The busy and crowded city of London had entirely vanished, along with its mist and heavy weather. It was clear - cold, yes, for it was winter - but a clear winter day with snow upon the ground.

"Good Heavens!" cried Potter, sinking to his knees. "Privet Drive, Surrey."

"You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit.

"Remember it!" cried Potter with fervor. "I could walk it blindfold."

"Then do so with your eyes open and care not for the people you see. They are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."

Potter saw the people and recognized them as they passed by. "That's old Figg!" he pointed out. "She was a squib who watched over me. There, that's Mrs. Polkiss. She once gave me a chocolate bar which her son snatched away later."

Even as he recalled his childhood - not particularly a happy one, definitely, he felt a strange warmth grow within him. Why was he so rejoiced to see them? Why did his cold eyes glisten and see only the good, forgetting the bad? Why was he filled his joy when he saw the people in his childhood wish each other Merry Christmas - strangers stopping to chat for a few seconds before heading their own ways - and without fail? What was Merry Christmas to Harry Potter? What good had it ever done to him?

"The park is not quite deserted," said the Ghost. "A solitary child, friendless and lonely, is left there still."

Potter said he knew it. And he sobbed.

They left the road and rode on the wings of the wind, and soon approached a magnificent castle. In the backdrop of several feet of snow, and clear blue skies, the castle appeared like a crown atop the vast white fields. There was an earthy savor in the air, a chilly bareness which made the place appear more than merely magical, divine perhaps.

They went, the Ghost and Potter, across the hall, through a long corridor that led to an open door.

"Spirit," said Potter suddenly. "I know where it is you are taking me now. I do not wish to go."

"You must," said the kindly Ghost. "You must remember what you have forgotten."

Potter tried to stop walking but found himself being blown forward by the wind, and despite his struggles, he was led into the room with the open door and he sighed.

"The Mirror of Erised," he muttered. "This is the night I first found it - Christmas." He paused to stare at his younger self deeply engrossed with the image of his parents on the mirror. "That night I was sure that Christmas had a special magic of itself."

"Will you look into the mirror?"

Potter remained silent. Slowly, he turned his head away from his younger self and shook his head. "I am scared to imagine what I would see."

Potter's younger self grew in size a little bit and the boy's eyes gleamed as he sat on his bed in his dormitory, holding a Firebolt.

"My godfather gave it to me," said Potter slowly. He shook his head sadly. He opened his mouth but shut it again without saying anything.

"What is the matter?" asked the Spirit.

"Nothing," said Potter. "Nothing. My godson had invited me to dinner, and though I didn't want to go, I could have been nicer to him."

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully and waved its hand; saying as it did so, "Let us see another Christmas."

They stood by as the colors swirled around them as if reality itself was being swept aside by the winter wind and when things settled, Potter frowned. He was in Grimmauld Place and he was in a room where his, he was certain of it, fifteen year old self was sitting near Sirius Black, his godfather.

"_Just stop worrying,"_ Sirius Black was comforting his godson after Nagini's attack on Arthur Weasley that Harry had witnessed in a vision. Soon, the scene changed and the mood lightened up as Potter saw himself, his godfather, Hermione Granger and the Weasley family putting Christmas decorations and trying hard to make the gloomy and dark house appear festive. Their efforts finally paid off and the morose Grimmauld Place looked as if Christmas had come.

Then the scene turned to Mrs. Weasley crying over a jumper Percy had sent back to her.

"How I hated him for that," muttered Potter to the Ghost. "I couldn't understand why anyone would turn back the affections of a caring family." He paused. "Merlin, Spirit, what has happened to me? What have I become? Spirit, take me home."

"Not yet," said the Spirit and beckoned towards the scene unfolding before them.

Potter turned to see the long term ward of St. Mungo's and his younger self and his two closest friends standing near Neville Longbottom and his grandmother. Neville was being scolded by his grandmother for letting the state of his parents come in the way of his friendship.

"Why did I charge Neville for the potions?" Potter suddenly blurted out. "I knew he couldn't afford it. Merlin!"

"Why did you?" asked the Ghost.

"I do not know," said Potter. "It just seemed right. Then, I mean. The potion was supposed to be for Hermione and it couldn't save her. I failed to see why anyone else should benefit from it without payment. And I - I don't think so anymore. Spirit, take me back so I can heal Neville's parents!"

"My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!"

This was not addressed to Potter or to any other live person around them, but it produced an immediate effect. For again, Potter saw himself. He was older now; a man in his twenties. A man who had lived through a war and emerged victorious. His face had begun to show the signs of wear, care and coldness. There was a hungry look to his eyes and a sorrow as he worked through Christmas Eve and came up with a new magical theory but forgot to remember his dinner date with his fiancée.

A fair young girl with the typical Weasley red hair entered the warehouse - the same place where he still worked - in her eyes were tears which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

"It matters little," she said softly to the younger Harry Potter. "To you, even less. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve."

"What Idol has displaced you?" Harry asked.

"One of magic and power."

"But I am doing it for Hermione," said Harry hotly. "I have to save her. She would have done it for me."

"She would have wanted you to live," said she. "To take at least some time just for yourself. To - to smile and laugh from time to time. All your original hopes have merged into this one: to gather more and more understanding of magic to yourself. If you could you would wither away in the hopes of finding a route to avoid death. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall, until the master passion, Greed for Power, engrosses you. Have I not?"

"What then?" Harry retorted. "Even if I have become greedier for power, what then? I have not changed towards you."

She shook her head.

"Have I?"

"In words, no," she said. "In actions, no. In thoughts, I cannot tell. In feelings, you most definitely have. Tell me truthfully, Harry, if I were to release you from our relationship, what would you do?"

"Have I ever sought release?"

"No. Again, not in words," she said sadly. "But tell me. Would you fight for me? Would you woo me again? Or would you lower your eyes as I walk away before getting back to your research."

Harry looked at her, dumbfounded. He was thinking hard, but before he could answer, his fiancée removed her ring and placed it on his table and turned around. As she walked away, Harry lowered his eyes and slowly picked up one of his research papers.

"Spirit!" cried Potter. "Show me no more! Why do you delight to torture me?"

"There is one more," said the Ghost pityingly, but relentlessly, the Ghost pinioned him in both his arms and forced him to observe the next scene.

There were in another scene and place; a room in a small apartment, which spoke of affluence, not in gold, but in affection and comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful girl, and for a moment Potter thought it was a younger form of the one he had just seen. A closer glance proved him wrong. The same woman was sitting next to the younger girl, now older, and the noise was tumultuous as the wireless played Celestina Warbeck. There was a Christmas tree and the little girl was desperate to get her eager little claws on the neatly wrapped boxes but a stern gaze from the woman sent her running to shelter behind a man, who had just appeared.

"Daddy," the girl had cried.

"Ginny," said the man, turning to the woman with a smile. "I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon."

"Who was it?"

"Guess!"

"How can I?" Then she laughed and shook her head. "Harry Potter?"

"Mr. Potter it was," said he. "I passed his office window, and I saw him sitting alone. Your brother was not even there. Poor guy," he shook his head, "Quite alone in the world."

"Spirit!" said Potter in a broken voice. "Remove me from this place."

"I told you that these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are as they are, do not blame me."

"Take me away!" Potter exclaimed. "I cannot bear it."

He turned to the Ghost, and saw upon it a new face - that of Ginny Weasley. Then it changed to George Weasley. One by one, all the Weasleys faces came on the Ghost's. Then Hagrid. Albus Dumbledore. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. And it went on, until nearly everyone who had ever cared for Harry's face could be seen in the Ghost's and Potter sank to his knees.

"Leave me alone! Take me back! Haunt me no more!"

In the next few minutes, Harry Potter had no idea of what happened. Strange lights and strange sounds had come and gone but his eyes were clenched shut as he struggled with the ghosts of his Christmases past.

Finally, several minutes later, he realized the stillness and darkness around him was the darkness of his own room. Slowly, he got up from the floor, overcome by an irresistible drowsiness, and climbing on his bed, sank into a heavy sleep.


	4. Stave 3

_**Stave 3. The Second of the Three Spirits**_

Awaking roughly, aware that he was still quite drowsy, Potter sat up on his bed to clear his thoughts. He had barely managed to hear the striking of the clock on fifteen minutes before the stroke of One. He felt he was being restored to consciousness, not of his own accord, but in order to be in time to grace the second messenger. By then, he had let go of all doubt as to the reality of the appearance of the Ghosts through Ronald Weasley's intervention.

But this time Potter wished to be ready. He grabbed his cloak and put on sturdy walking boots. He gingerly held his phoenix core wand and placed it near his waist. Now, being prepared for almost anything, as the clock struck the hour, and no shape appeared, he started trembling with nervousness, and started thinking.

Teddy, his godson, was foremost on his mind. The poor lad had been an orphan, just like he was, but that was where the similarities stopped. Harry Potter had a godfather who cared for him and managed to storm out of the dreaded Azkaban prison to come to his aid, while Teddy Lupin's godfather was - Potter struggled to find an adequate description of himself.

The second person topmost in his mind was Ginny Weasley - but surely, her name must have changed since then. He hadn't recognized her new husband, but felt saddened by the sudden loss he felt in his heart. Why hadn't he jumped up and stopped her from leaving the warehouse the day she had walked out? Why hadn't he promised to make up for all his shortcomings and begged her not to leave? Why had he just let her walk away?

He had kept the ring, thinking she would work out on her anger in the next few days and come back, and in the meantime, he had found an interesting new potion that could be used in a new manner to help patients with long term exposure to cruciatus. He hadn't wanted the distraction and thought it best to be single for a short while. But that short while lengthened into months and then years and Ginny didn't return. His new potion also took longer to establish and he took Ginny's delay as a blessing. But he had kept the ring.

He stood up and opened a small box in the mantelpiece above the fireplace. His fingers had barely touched the ring when a strange voice called him by his name. He turned around and saw his room had changed. Instead of the darkness of night, the walls and ceilings had become a lively green, from every part of which, bright berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe and ivy reflected in the light. And on the floor, lay a scrumptious meal - a feast fit for any king - with turkeys, geese, poultry, apples, oranges, pears, fresh bread, glasses of wine - and beside it with a jolly smile, there sat a jolly Giant, with a long umbrella in his hand.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in, and know me better, man."

"You look like Hagrid," said Potter.

"Each of us Spirits take the appearance of one who knows you well," said the Spirit. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me."

Potter obliged. The man, despite what he said, looked so much like Hagrid that he felt an ache in his heart for his first true friend.

"Does my appearance bother you?"

"Nay," said Potter, controlling himself. "It does remind me of what I have lost."

"Lost?" asked the Ghost. "Or deliberately left behind?"

Potter lowered his gaze and didn't respond.

"Touch my robe."

He did as he was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, ivy, berries, turkeys, geese, poultry, fruits and wine all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the glow, the hour of the night and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where, the people made a rough but fitting music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their houses. Witches and wizards could have easily used spells to vanish the snow, but indulged in a moment of Christmas magic by doing so manually, occasionally pelting each other with a snow ball and laughing joyously.

The Spirit would stop, ever so often, at a homestead and sprinkle some dust off his torch. And when he did so, it appeared as if a missing glow in the faces of the people would suddenly be rediscovered and the ones blessed by the Spirit would suddenly partake in the good spirit of the day with their fellow men.

"Spirit," said Potter. "This is a pleasant sight - but not one I can recall from memory. I have never been to this part of town. Can you tell me where you are taking me?"

"You have a clerk in your employ," said the Spirit simply, as he led Potter up a driveway to the house of Dennis Creevey - Harry Potter's clerk. The Spirit blessed the homestead, not caring for the lack of wealth and status of the owner of the house.

Then up rose Mrs. Creevey, and Potter peered forward, recognizing her. "Luna Lovegood," he called out in disbelief. "Never in ten years of employment did I know that Dennis was married to Luna." Luna Creevey was dressed out in what appeared to be a cheap gown but she wore it with pride, as she laid the cloth on their table, assisted by her daughter, while a young boy plunged a fork into a saucepan of potatoes. Two more smaller Creeveys came tearing in, screaming they had smelt the prize goose and known it to be their own, confident that their daddy would get it for them, basking in thoughts of sage and onion, these young Creeveys danced around the table.

"What has got your father keeping then?" said Mrs. Creevey. "And your brother, Tiny Tim. I do hope the nargles haven't got to them."

"But the nargles don't come out on Christmas day, mother," said a girl, appearing into sight. "You had said so yourself. But here's a goose."

"Martha, bless your heart, how late you are," cried Luna Creevey, kissing her eldest daughter several times and taking the small sized goose off her hands.

"There's father," cried one of the younger boys. "Hide, Martha! Hide!" The children jumped up into action and Luna stifled a laugh as her younger children pushed their eldest daughter behind a sofa.

In came little Dennis, the father, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch and had his limbs supported by an iron frame.

"Why, where's our Martha?" asked Dennis, looking around.

"Not coming," said Luna, feigning sadness.

"Not coming!" cried Bob, with a sudden sinking of his spirits. "Not coming on Christmas day?"

Martha, not wanting to see her father disappointed for long, even if it were only in joke, came out from her hiding place and ran into his arms, while the other young Creeveys hustled Tiny Tim and bore him off to the wash house.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Luna, as she kissed Dennis on his cheek and he had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Dennis. "Better. He gets thoughtful sitting by himself and things and says the strangest things ever. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple and it might be pleasant for them to remember on Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Dennis' voice shook as he spoke and his fingers trembled when he heard the sound of a crutch hitting the floor and back came Tiny Tim, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire, while Dennis prepared a concoction of wine and water and heated it with spices and lime.

At that very moment, Luna was busy in the kitchen preparing the gravy for the goose. There never was such a goose. Dennis said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, size and cheapness were the major themes of discussion; which, along with Luna's apple-sauce and mashed potatoes made a sufficient dinner for the entire family. The family talked, idle chatter that contained little more than ample evidence of the love that was in the air, until finally, nervous and excited, Luna Creevey left the room - to bring the pudding in.

"Oh, what a wonderful pudding!" Tiny Tim cried out at the first glance, making his mother's smile broaden. Nobody mentioned at its small size or complained about the portions given them.

"God bless us all and everyone!" said Tiny Tim suddenly and his father ruffled his hair.

"How thoughtful of you, Timothy Colin Creevey," said he. "A Merry Christmas to us all. May God bless us and Merlin save us." Which his family re-echoed.

"Spirit," said Potter, with an interest he hadn't felt before, "tell me if Tiny Tim will live."

"I see a vacant sear," replied the Ghost, "in the chimney corner and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die."

"No, no!" cried Potter. "Oh, no, Spirit, say he will be spared!"

"What of it," said the Spirit, not unkindly but conversationally, "If he should die, he had better do it quick and decrease the surplus population."

Potter hung his head in shame as he heard his own words being thrown back at him, and felt overcome with grief and horror at what he had become.

"Mr. Potter!" said Dennis. "I'll give you Mr. Potter, the Founder of the Feast."

"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Luna. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon and I hope -"

"My dear," interrupted Dennis lightly, "the children. Christmas Day."

"Very well," said Luna, relenting. "I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's and for old memories of a friend I once had, but not for the empty and callous shell he has now become. Long life to him and a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

The children drank the toast after her but a darkness was cast upon the evening, a darkness which disturbed Potter, for it had been cast at the mere mention of his name.

"I am the ogre of this family," said he to the Spirit. "Just as Voldemort and Vernon Dursley were ogres to me."

But even as he spoke, the wings of the wind took them in a hurry and cast them away from the happy family to a place that lacked the warmth of the fire but not that of goodwill and cheer.

"Where are we, Spirit?" asked Potter as he saw people gathered together in a cold hall, where scores of little children carried bowls in their hands and a matronly looking woman poured soup in it. "It looks like an orphanage of some sort." His eyes then fell on the two gentlemen who had come to his office to collect money for orphans.

"Such a pity," said one of them. "Only hot soup and bread for these children tonight."

"It couldn't be helped, sir," said the other. "We couldn't deny these children the joy of waking up to find a present each. We had to compromise on the food."

"Presents, bah!" muttered the first. "Mere rag dolls and quaffles and snitches," he said. "We could have done much better. Much better." He remained silent for a while. "I should leave this place for the grief this place brings to my heart is only shadowed by the anger that there are such people in the world who could look at this sight and not feel a thing. Far be it that I be facing the Lord in the day of judgment and be brought to task for having such fell thoughts on the holiest of days. A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."

"He speaks of me," said Potter to the Spirit sadly as he looked at the pitiful sight of the orphanage. "How can I look at this sight and not feel a thing?" He stayed silent as the children, despite their meager fare, started wishing each other 'Merry Christmas' and singing carols.

"You better not shout, you better not cry

You better not pout, I'm telling you why

Santa Claus is coming to town…"

Potter wiped a tear from his eyes. "Isn't this your cue for moving on, Spirit? You have made your point here."

And so it didn't come as much of a surprise to Potter when the wind moaned again, and it moved him from the sad yet beautiful singing of the orphans to a different kind of holiday cheer - he was standing in a room full of happy and mirthful people. To Potter's surprise, he found himself in a bright room with the Spirit standing smiling by his side in Hagrid's appearance, and looking at Potter's godson with much approval.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Teddy. "Ha, ha, ha!"

It was a fair and even handed laugh that knew that there was much wrong with the world but yet decided that there comes a day in every year when even the most steadfast of champions for the poor and downtrodden must sit back, sip a glass of gin and tonic and laugh. It was that kind of laugh. Potter's niece by marriage - Victoire, formerly a Weasley, now a Lupin - laughed as heartily as Teddy himself. And their friends and family roared out equally.

"Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"He said that Christmas was a humbug!" cried Teddy. "He seemed to believe it too."

"More shame for him, Ted," said Victoire indignantly. She was very pretty. How could she not, having veela blood in her, tempered by the Weasley robustness. She looked at her aunt's disapproving look and said, "Oh, come on, Aunt Ginny. You know how he is."

"He's a comical fellow," said Teddy, turning to Ginny. "That's the truth and not very pleasant. But I believe his offences are a punishment on themselves and I have no ill will against him."

"I have no patience with him," observed Victoire. Most of the other women in the room, mostly Victoire's aunties by marriage, expressed similar opinion.

"Oh, I have," said Teddy. "I am sorry for him. I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his whims? Himself, always! Aunt Ginny, do you not agree?"

"I do, Teddy," said Ginny quietly, and would say no more.

"Exactly," said Teddy, raising a glass. "I am only saying that the consequence of his taking such a dislike to festivities is, as I think, merely that he loses some pleasant moments which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his dusty old books and crumpled parchment. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he like it or not, and it is my greatest hope to some year at Christmas Day turn around and find Harry Potter at my doorstep, looking at me in the eye and saying, 'Ted, I have decided to accept your invitation for dinner, lad.' Every man, woman and child should have an offer to dine with their family on this night, and as I am the closest he has left to family, I intend to do this every year."

"Hear, hear," said someone. And the guests all clapped in appreciation of Teddy's good nature and Christmas spirit. After some time, the guests played all kinds of games, followed by a dabble with music, when Ginny and Victoire took turns at singing while Teddy played the piano.

Potter found himself mesmerized by their singing. He turned to find the Ghost look at him appreciatively and looked back with the fervor of a boy begging his mother to let him stay in the playground for just five minutes more.

"Only a minute more," said Potter. "Teddy's singing for the first time. Only one."

_"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch…"_

He had barely finished when Victoire started laughing. Everyone turned to her and she shook her head. "I just thought how fitting it would be to change the name to Mr. Potter."

_"You're a mean one, Mr. Pot  
You're the king of sinful sots  
Your heart's a dead tomato splot  
With moldy purple spots  
Mr. Pot."_

Victoire had started the first line but most of the people had joined her by the middle, most except Teddy and Ginny, who waited out the singing politely.

Teddy then raised his glass and said, "He has given us much merriment tonight and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to consume and I say, "Harry Potter!""

"Harry Potter!" everyone cried.

"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the man, wherever he is. He wouldn't take it from me but he may have it nevertheless. Harry Potter."

Potter had become so light hearted in that moment that he would have given up his entire life's work and thanked them profusely had the Ghost allowed them. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by Teddy, and he and the Spirit were back on their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, in many cities and many countries - people of all faiths - putting aside their lives, beliefs, cultures, and whatnot to relish a moment of humanity and family love on the night of Christmas Day.

"My life ends soon," said the Spirit finally.

"Are spirits' lives so short?"

"Mine is," replied the Ghost. "It ends to-night, for I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."

"Tonight!" cried Potter.

"Hark! The time is drawing near."

The chimes were ringing at that moment. Two unearthly claws protruded from the Spirit's belly and Potter squinted to get a better look at it.

"Spirit, what are they?"

The Spirit took out from the folding of its robe, two children - wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt at its feet and clung upon its garment.

"Oh, Man! Look at thy own product as they cling to my, appealing from their fathers!" cried the Spirit. "The boy is Ignorance. The girl is Want. Beware them both or else walk to your Doom."

"Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Potter.

"Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no workhouses?"

The bell struck twelve. The time was up.


	5. Stave 4

_**Stave 4 - The Last of the Spirits**_

Barely had Potter regained consciousness from the sudden jerk that brought him back to his own room again, did the final of his unearthly visitor approach him.

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Potter bent down upon his knee and took a deep breath.

"Dementor!" cried he, taking out his wand in a flash.

A dementor it was, shrouded in a deep black garment which concealed its head, face, form and left nothing visible save one outstretched bony hand. But despite a general dread and chill that accompanied the specter, Potter was safe from any other terrible memory from his life. And then he knew it was not a dementor.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Be?" asked Potter.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand.

"Nay, it cannot be." Potter cried out in dismay. "The former Ghost had said that the Spirits will only take appearances of those who know me well. It cannot be that a dementor knows me better than any other, nay, it cannot be that a dementor knows me at all!"

The phantom moved not and waited for a few seconds until Potter spoke again.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Potter asked. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The only response made by the Spirit was a slight inclination of its head. Although Potter was well used to these strange ghosts, he feared the silent shape of the newest one, and found his legs had lost a lot of control.

"Ghost of the Future," Potter called out. "I fear you more than any specter I have seen, but I know your purpose is to do me good, and I hope to live as another man from what I was. I thank you for your company with all my heart. Will you not speak to me?"

The phantom gave no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

"Lead on," said Potter. "I dread what you may show, but lead on, Spirit."

The two of them found themselves in a busy corner of Diagon Alley, right outside Gringotts, where several men had just come out of the bank with a mix between a grim and curious expressions on their faces.

"I know them," said Potter, pointing at them. "That's Madam Pince's successor in Hogwarts Library. And that other fellow there is one of my most frequent customers. What are they doing together?"

The spirit stayed silent, as if engrossed in the conversation of the two men.

"Who would have ever thought," said one, "that the recluse's thoughts would turn to such foolishness."

"It's a good thing that the Aurors stepped in when they did," said the librarian. "I am proud of the part I played in it."

"And made a fair heist out of it, if you ask me," muttered the first, eyeing a money bag in the other's hand.

"This goes to the Hogwarts fund for students from less affluent family," said the librarian. "Most of it, at least. The Headmaster has allowed me to refurbish part of the library. Merlin knows we needed this money. But did we do the right thing?"

"Only the Spirits can tell," said the first. "We might very well have saved the world from the grasp of a new Dark Lord - one with an unsurpassable knowledge of magic - I shudder to think what could have been; and even if our act was one of haste and our fears in time had proven to be baseless, together, we have brought much good into the world than that fool could alone."

"O Spirit," cried out Potter. "Tell me it isn't me they speak of with such heartless cruelty."

The spirit turned its head and the wind answered its summons and moved them to a new location. Green fields with a somber air to it - a cemetery - and Potter trembled.

Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, thou hast always been my dearest companion, why then do I fear to see you in the face.

No voice spoke those words in Potter's ears but he could hear them loud and clear as he swallowed with unease on seeing the quiet and empty funeral service as the Undertaker and Clergy carried on their tasks with disinterest.

"How sad the man for whom not a single tear graces his deathbed," muttered Potter, when he was distracted and saw a man walk towards the funeral. Hope rose in his chest like a blackbird in a deep blue sky, stretching its wings.

"Serves him right!" the man yelled, with his fists balled. He spat to the ground, sending Potter's blackbird crashing into the ground - a fledgling that ought to have waited longer before attempting to challenge the harsh winds and skies.

Turning to the Spirit, Potter sighed. "If there is any person in the town - nay, the country - who feels any emotion caused by this man's death, I beg you to show me that person."

The Phantom spread its dark robe like a wing and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where two women were present. Potter recognized them as Ginny and her daughter. He gasped when he saw Ginny lying on a bed with the countenance of one who had lost the use of her legs, which were in heavy casts.

Ginny's face held a shadow of sorrow and she rested her hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Won't you go to see him?"

"No."

"He was your father, Lily," said Ginny.

"A father who didn't even know or care about my existence," snapped the younger girl. "After the way he treated you, you cannot expect me to go and pay respect to him. I hate him! If anything, I am sorry that I didn't have the chance to say that to his face! I hate him!"

"Don't speak ill of the dead, dear," said Ginny.

But Potter wasn't able to follow the conversation any longer. He turned to the Spirit with horror in his eyes.

"I have a daughter?" he whispered. "A daughter? That girl - Ginny's daughter - is my child?" After several seconds, he said, "And she hates me."

"And the world can only be thankful for it," the girl was saying. "Haven't you read the papers, mother. He was researching on how to become immortal! He was trying to fight death! Surely, that could only lead him down a path no mortal should ever venture! Isn't that how all the previous Dark Lords became what they were?"

Potter turned his face, having lost the capacity to cry. "Spirit, show me some tenderness connected with a death so I can endeavor to make false my daughter's words and no longer fear my own death."

The Ghost lowered its head and led Potter through many streets - Diagon Alley - but much had changed, in the name of progress, of course, and Potter could see several of his own magical discoveries having become the cornerstones of development. But nowhere and no one remembered him for any of that. Oh, how true the words of Marc Anthony as he spoke for the tyrant that Rome believed Caesar to be and cried - 'The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones; so let it be with Caesar…'

But while Caesar had Marc Anthony to remind the world of the good that he had brought about in his lifetime, there was no such person standing tall and speaking grand words for Harry Potter. No, his death was as uncelebrated as his life, following the final battle with Voldemort. O Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts! And so let it be for Potter.

It was with such thoughts in his head that Harry Potter came upon the once noisy and now quiet house of the Creeveys. The younger children were still as statues in one corner, and the mother had a blank expression in front of her eyes.

"He is playing with crumple horned snorkaks in the fields of Elysium," said Luna vacantly. Turning to her children, she said, "I will ask Daddy if we can go search for some this summer. They will lead us to Tim."

"Oh, honey," cried Dennis, who had just entered through the door. He didn't reach for her as quick as one of his younger child, who was now sitting on Luna's lap. He attempted a smile at his children, but it came out crooked. He looked at the homework they had finished and nodded approvingly, before smiling at his wife's handiwork at sewing. When the children left, he held her softly and said:

"Remember how being unable to stop mourning led Harry Potter down his path," he said quietly. "Surely, Tiny Tim deserves better than that."

"He does," sighed Luna. "You went today, Dennis?"

"I did," said Dennis sorrowfully. "I promised him I would visit every Sunday. How beautiful and peaceful the place is, Tim would have loved it. Oh my child! My little child!" And he broke down, unable to help it. He cried until, one by one, his other children came and hugged him.

Slowly, the family picked itself up and brought out the goose - much smaller than the one Potter had seen before - and sat down for dinner on Christmas Eve night.

"I met Mr. Potter's godson today," said Dennis suddenly. "He said he was sorry to hear about Tim - it was him who had the roses planted all around the - the tombstone - he said he remembered meeting Tim. Merlin knows what a good soul Teddy has - it was but a brief meeting of a few minutes and he recalled Tim's favorite flowers were white roses. He offered to help in any way possible and left me his card."

"His father was the best Defense teacher we had," said Luna. "I'm sure Teddy's just like Professor Lupin."

"You would be surer of it if you had met him, my dear," said he. "He said he might have a better position for our Martha. Madam Malkin's needs a store assistant and the old proprietor owes Teddy a few favors. How glad I would be to see Martha no longer working at that dreadful pub!"

"Bless his soul!" said Luna suddenly. She leaned forward and kissed him. She leaned forward and kissed all her children and they kissed her back, and then they kissed their father.

"Somehow I can't help feeling that Tiny Tim always looks down on us," said one of the children.

"I am sure he does," said Dennis slowly. "He sees us and prays to God for us and hopes that we move on with our lives, never forgetting him, but giving him the proper place that he deserves in our heart - with fondness and affection - not with tears and sorrow."

"May God bless us all and everyone," said Luna. "That's what he would have said if he were here."

"True," said Dennis. He raised a glass of punch and echoed, "May God bless us and Merlin save us."

"Specter," Potter said to the Phantom. "I cannot tear my eyes from the lonely crutch that lies by the fireside, now without an owner, but yet I plead with you - Tarry not, and take me away from this place. I have seen what I wished to. My heart is healed. I should not have let go of life in my quest to search a cure for Hermione - I should have celebrated this wondrous gift that God has given me and most of all, I should have celebrated the spirit of Christmas. I - of all other people - should have realized the value of family and cherished them; instead of turning into the empty shell of a cold hearted vessel that I have become. Will you take me back so I may make amends?"

The Spirit acquiesced and took Potter away from the place and brought him to a house and stopped; the hand was pointed away from the building.

"The house is there," said Potter, seeing the only building in sight. "Why do you point elsewhere?"

The finger didn't move and Potter sighed.

It was a churchyard. It was the very place where the pitiful funeral had taken place earlier that Potter had witnessed.

"Am I to now learn the identity of the man and shatter all pretense of hope and doubt I may have retained?" asked Potter quietly. "Will you not grant me even that much, Unmerciful Spirit?"

The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to a corner with four graves.

"Four?" muttered Potter curiously. "Before I draw nearer, answer me this: Are these shadows of what WILL be, or are these shadows of what MAY be, and thus, subject to change, at the hands of man?"

Still, the Ghost answered not and pointed downward to the graves by which it stood.

"Fate is inexorably linked to the decisions of man. A single decision, like a fork in a river's path, can divert the course of the future. Say it is thus and I will gladly look forward!"

The Spirit remained like a statue.

"Was I killed by the Aurors after being suspected of dark activities?"

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

"Spirit, Speak to me!"

The finger was still there.

Potter took a deep breath and looked forward. He gasped at the first one. The inscription read:

_Here lies James Potter  
Father, husband, friend, Auror._

_Here lies also Lily Potter  
Mother, wife, friend, a true Lady._

_Death will be the last enemy to conquer._

"Have I been interred next to my parents?" said Potter with a sigh. "I thank heaven for the kind soul who made this so." He leaned forward to read the next stone:

_Here lies a memory of Sirius Black  
An innocent prisoner of Azkaban._

_Let history judge him kinder than his fellow men._

"How fitting," muttered Potter. "He was a true hero. I wonder how history will judge me." He leaned forward and read the next. It truly shocked him.

_Here lies Ginevra  
Mother and lover._

_She is finally united with the boy she loved._

Potter sank to his knees before the stone and sobbed. "I am sorry. I am so sorry," he wept. "You deserved so much more. So much more." He looked dolefully at the Spirit, whose finger pointed to the last grave. Potter shook his head. "Nothing can hurt me more than this. That she chose to be interred here, in Godric's Hollow, and nowhere else, is but a reflection of her kind and pure heart - of her love - against the hideous creature of shadow that I am."

The Phantom stayed still.

"Very well," said Potter. "I will indulge you one last time." He got up and moved a few steps and froze.

_Here lies a memory  
Of the human that was Harry Potter._

_Let us remember him as the boy-who-lived._

Potter turned to the Spirit with a shocked expression.

"What does those cryptic words mean?" said he urgently. "Spirit, tell me the truth! If it is only a memory that lies in that grave, then where is my body? Where am I?"

For the first time, the hand began to shake as it reached upwards.

"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" cried Potter.

The Spirit lowered its hood and pushed back the frayed remains of what were hair atop decaying flesh, to reveal a less than human face with a lightning shaped scar on the forehead.

"No, Spirit!" cried Potter. "Here me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this evening. Why show me all this, if I am beyond all hope?"

He stumbled to the ground and begged. "Good Spirit, I will remember what it means to be alive. I will change. I will live in the Present, honor the Past and look forward to the Future. I will honor Christmas in my heart and actions and keep it alive all year, and not just on one dying day of every twelve months. The lessons of the Spirits shall live within me, and I will not forget them. Oh, tell me I may wipe away the writing on this stone!"

In his agony, he hadn't noticed the dementor lunging forward, as if to deliver the Kiss on him. Struggling was of no use, as the dementor lowered its head and started removing the soul out of Potter's head.

Holding up his hands in a last prayer for a second chance, Potter closed his eyes and the last image in his mind was that of Teddy and Ginny during the Christmas dinner and their mild defense of him. Their faith, if not his pleas, must be rewarded, he was certain of that. When he finally opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the windows were open.


	6. Stave 5

**Stave 5 - The End of It**

It wasn't a dream. He was back in his room. He was in his room and near his bed. And happiest of all, he was back in the present - he could still make amends and perhaps change the future that was shown him.

"I will remember what it means to be alive," Harry Potter repeated his words from earlier. "I will change. I will live in the Present, honor the Past and look forward to the Future. The Spirit of Christmas will live in me. And oh - Ron - my dear friends Ron and Hermione - how I miss you," he cried. "But no longer will I insult your memory. I will live. I promise to no longer insult our friendship and move on."

He was so moved and shining with anticipation of all that he would do that his voice would not work any longer. He had been sobbing quite violently in the last few moments of his encounter with the final Spirit, and his face was red and wet.

"I am still alive," said he. "Nay - I am finally alive - that is what I should say. I am alive - I am here - the shadows of the things that would have been, may yet be dispelled. They will be! I know they will!"

And then he laughed.

"I don't know what to do!" he cried. "There's so much I have to do that I do not know where to begin. Oh, I know!" He ran to the open window and shouted, "A Merry Christmas to everybody! A Happy New Year to the world! God bless us all and Merlin save us!"

"A Merry Christmas to you too, sir," called back a young boy with surprise and confusion on his face.

"What's today?" asked Harry suddenly. "What day is it?"

"Today?" the boy looked strangely at him. "Why, Christmas Day."

The Spirits had all come and gone in one night. He hadn't missed Christmas yet. He was in time. He had a second chance. And Harry knew he would make amends. There was so much to do - years of absence to make up for.

"Hello?" said the boy, thinking that he had gone quite mad.

"Ah, what a fine lad!" exclaimed Harry. "Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street at the corner?" asked he.

"I do believe I do," said the lad.

"What an intelligent lad!" said Harry. "Do you know if they have sold the prize Turkey yet? The one that was hanging up there - not the smaller prize Turkey - the big one!"

"You mean the one nearly as big as me?" returned the boy.

"Ha, ha!" Harry laughed. His spirits were raised. "Yes, that's the one."

"It's hanging there now," said the boy.

"Go and buy it." He said. "On second thought, don't. I need some exercise." He tossed a galleon down. "Buy yourself some a packet of chocolate frogs, lad. Merry Christmas."

"And to you, sir," said the boy happily and ran away with the galleon before Harry could say, And a Happy New Year.

He laughed instead. Shaking his head, he sat down in front of a mirror and smiled. With his wand, he shaved off his impressive side burns and trimmed his hair. After a quick shower, he set aside the pile of work robes that littered his wardrobe and picked a pair of old jeans and a muggle shirt. Pulling a red cashmere jumper over it and put on a long coat. Then, Harry Potter stepped outdoors.

He whistled as he walked, tapping his long umbrella on the pavement. Every time he saw somebody on the street, he would stop and remove his hat, bow and say, "A Merry Christmas to you, good sir" or "A Merry Christmas to you, my dear lady" and all the people whom he encountered would return the greetings, feeling a lightening of their spirit on seeing the cheerful and festive fellow.

"Hey there, Poulterer," he called out. "I am buying that prize Turkey of yours."

"That'll be seventy five galleons, guv'nor," said the poulterer.

Harry laid out a pouch of coins on front of the man and said, "There's a hundred in there. See the turkey delivered to one Dennis Creevey, who lives in -"

"I know where the Creeveys live, sir," said the poulterer. "He be a neighbor of my sister and I'll gladly take this big lump of meat to his house for no more cost to you."

"How kind of you, good sir," said Harry. "Please give the Turkey as an anonymous gift and keep the change for yourself. Buy a nice shawl for your good sister, or new boots, or as you please." He tilted his hat and made off, once again whistling to himself. To his utter good fortune, in his eyes, he came across the two gentlemen who had sought a donation from him for the orphans the previous day.

Harry hastened his pace and called out, "My dear sirs. A Merry Christmas to you."

"Mr. Potter?" said one of the gentlemen, with a hint of coolness.

"I confess my words yesterday were inexcusable and I beg your pardon," he began. "And I beg of you to keep aside what donations you have gathered for giving the little children a smashing dinner of turkey and sage and onion and punch. And if you will come with me to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, I am sure we will be able to reach an agreement as to the presents for the bright young children."

"Mr. Potter!" cried out he. "Such a commitment would run over hundreds of galleons!"

"Entirely worth the smiles of the little ones, eh?" said Harry with a smile, that convinced the gentlemen of the intent behind his offer, and they followed him to the store with considerably lighter hearts themselves. By the time they had reached the popular store, the three were joking and talking as if long separated friends.

" - and that one about the hag, the troll and the goblin?"

"Oh, yes indeed!" cried Harry. "That one was a particular favorite of the late Mr. Weasley's."

"Harry?"

Harry looked up and saw a surprised, and to some extent shocked, face of George Weasley. He walked forward and shook hands with his one time good friend. "A Merry Christmas to you, George," he said. "How goes the business?"

"Oh, are you here to collect your share of the profits these past fifteen years?" asked George. "We have kept it aside and -"

"Speak no more, George, my fine fellow," Harry rose his hand. "These fine gentlemen here have some major purchasing to do. Cut whatever the cost is from my share and if there's any left over - kindly give that to them as well."

George looked confused.

"Harry, are you all right?"

"I am indeed," said Harry. "Finally, after fifteen years of utter stupidity, I have come back to my senses. How is the family?"

George stared at Harry for a few seconds and then a broad smile came on his face. He rushed forward and hugged Harry.

"Follow me inside," George cried. "Oy Jenny!" He looked at his shop assistant. "Help these gentlemen, will you, there's a dear!" He then led Harry indoors to a cozy little office.

"Busy time of the year?" asked Harry.

"You have no idea," said George. "And Jenny wants to shift to the Hogsmeade store with Percy, leaving me an employee less and - look at me, talking of my little problems! Harry, what a surprise!"

"It is indeed," said Harry. "I have been a git."

"A massive one, I'm afraid," said George gravely.

"A prat."

"A royal one, to be sure," said George.

"I can only hope that in time I will be worthy of forgiveness," said Harry quietly. "How is everyone? How is Ginny?"

George lowered his eyes. "Not very well," said he. "She was married to a squib who worked in a muggle bank, but the bastard eloped with his secretary and left Ginny heartbroken."

Harry was speechless.

"But to be fair, she took it much better than when - well - never mind."

Harry got up. "I have to make amends," he said. "Is everyone dining at the Burrow tonight?"

"How did you - Oh, Teddy invited you, did he?"

"Yes," said Harry. "Will you keep this secret? I want to surprise my godson." When George nodded, he added, "I think I can help you with your employee problem. I have just the right person for you. Old Dennis Creevey's daughter. I will send her over before the New Year." He tilted his hat and said, "I'll make a move now. I have a lot to atone for, many mistakes to undo."

"Good to have you back again, Harry," said George with a smile.

Harry left the store and apparated to St. Mungo's. After revealing his identity, he found himself shortly in the presence of the Head Healer.

"I want any medicine, potion, treatment from Potter and Weasley to be provided free of charge on the week of Christmas," said Harry. "Is that possible?"

"Possible?" cried out the Healer. "Why, bless you, Mr. Potter, bless your kind soul! There are scores who would benefit from your kindness - I do not know what to say!"

"A Merry Christmas will suffice," said Harry, getting up. "Can I request you to begin with the Longbottoms? Can I also request to see the file of a certain Timothy Colin Creevey? I wish to work on a cure for his ailment. Hopefully, I will manage to find something before New Year."

The Healer gaped at him openly for a few seconds before, overwhelmed with emotion, he brought out a file and shoved it in Harry's hands.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter," said the Healer. "God bless you."

"And Merlin save you," said Harry, as he left the office.

Harry walked out of the hospital and returned to his apartment. There was still a good many hour to go before dinner and he knew what he wanted to do most. Sitting beside his fire, he picked up the file and set himself hard at work; for the first time with a smile instead of a frown, as his mind sieved through the complex charts of magical runes and potion ingredient reactions.

"Ah," he said finally. "I believe there is a way. It will take time, a week, perhaps a month, but Tiny Tim will survive, and his crutch will no longer require an owner."

He then rose with a smile on his face - a smile, unlike any he had before, for this was a smile of purpose, of happiness - and he dressed himself for dinner at the Burrow. His heart was nervous and none of his apparel appeared quite the right thing to wear. Then, he smiled on seeing it. The final Weasley jumper that he had received - green in color - and he quickly put it on.

He apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole and walked to the market. He bought a large pudding and several small ones. He walked among beggars, spoke to them, gave them a small pudding each, and returned their blessings with joy. Then he went to the church. And as he walked, he picked all kinds of flowers. He had never dreamed that any walk could give him so much happiness. When it approached dinner time, he walked towards the Burrow.

He passed the door a dozen times and retreated. Finally, he gathered up his courage and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" a squeaky voice called out.

"Hello, Winky," said Harry. "You are looking very bright today. Is Teddy in?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Harry," called out the house elf. "He is indoors in the Living Room. Shall I get him?"

"Don't you bother," said Harry. "I will manage. I know the way." He stepped forward and clearing his throat, spoke out clearly, "Ted, I have decided to accept your invitation for dinner, lad."

"Why, bless my soul!" cried Teddy as he jumped forward. "Uncle Harry!"

"It is I," said Harry. "Your Uncle Harry. I have come to dinner, if you will still have me."

"_Have_ you? _Have_ you!" cried Teddy, as he hugged his godfather. "Why, you will be lucky if I let you leave tonight, Uncle Harry."

Harry patted his godson's head and took out the large pudding he had bought, along with the flowers. "I hope this pleases the young Mrs. Lupin," he smiled at Victoire, who blushed as she took the flowers and pudding from Harry.

Harry looked around. The entire room seemed to be overcome with a bout of eye dampening; in one corner, sat George with his wife Angelina, and both had knowing smiles on their faces as George nodded; Percy and Penelope were looking at him, Percy with a commiserating look; Bill and Fleur were surprised more than anything else; Charlie and his wife observed cautiously; the younger generation of Weasleys for the most part appeared confused; but it was to the remainder of the company to whom Harry's eyes were fixed. He saw Ginny looking at him tearfully and he tore his eyes from her and the girl beside her to walk to a really old Molly Weasley first.

"Harry, you're back, son?" she asked in a daze, not having quite recovered completely from the battle.

"Yes, I'm back," said Harry quietly. "I was lost for a while but I have found my way. Am I too late?" As he spoke, his eyes fell on Ginny, who was clutching her daughter's hand tightly.

"Not at all, dear. The Turkey is not quite done yet," said Molly. "You're staying the night? Good, Ron's room has been empty for so long. So long…"

Harry turned when he saw Ginny slowly leave the room. He looked at George, who nodded, and he excused himself.

He followed Ginny out to the garden. But he had barely stepped outside when he heard the magical words of the once dreaded Bat Bogey hex being cast upon him.

"Git!" yelled Ginny, one Harry had sunk to his knees, overcome by the massive bogeys coming out of his nostrils.

"A massive one, to be honest," said Harry painfully.

"Prat!" yelled Ginny.

"A royal one, I'm afraid," said Harry, grinning despite the pain. It was a well known fact. Once Ginny resorted to the Bat Bogey Hex, all would be well.


	7. Update

**Author's Note: **As I wasn't able to finish it time for last christmas, I'm being a bit cheeky and bumping this story back up for the holiday season.


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